Wilting Winter Night

In this wilting winter night,

Of the husk fire kindled in the battered hovel

Of an unclothed, beggared son of the shovel,

I wish to be the blood-tinged warmth.

 

In this wilting winter night,

A simmering flame latent within

The unfed soul of some daylong laborer,

That leaps and hisses all of a sudden

In a gust of energy of hope and ardor;

That energy I wish to be.

 

In this wilting winter night,

Expressing the unuttered shriek of fright

Of an endangered minority race,

Armoring their forgotten trace,

I wish to be a girdle of security.

 

In this wilting winter night

A song unsung, yet drawing out the dawn

Churning in a singer whose voice long gone;

To mould life into that song of might

I wish to be an ambrosial voice.

 

This wilting winter night, I wish to be……